“I don’t have eyes in the back of my head,” she said.
She may have been washing the dishes at the time, or ironing shirts, or defrosting the freezer. Or maybe she was engrossed in the latest infidelity on Days of Our Lives, or trying to figure out which of the three contestants on To Tell the Truth was the real submarine captain. I was probably working in my coloring book, and asking her if I had picked the right shade of yellow for the canary, or an acceptable blue for Paul Revere’s hat. Whatever we were both doing, I had said something that compelled her to declare this physical limitation.
As usual, my struggle for a suitable reply…
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